exnihilo: (Default)
[Public video, but filtered away from Harvey, David, and Iris]

[It might not be immediately obvious, between the low light and the strange angle, but Mira is lying on top of the unadorned altar in the nondenominational chapel on deck, some of her hair hanging over the side, comm held above her.]

Do you ever feel like you aren't real?


Confidential to David, Cassel, Iris, Harvey, and Helena )
exnihilo: (identity)
[Filtered away from all the residents of the barge, but open to any random fourth-wall people who might bother her.]

If you have any instructions for me, I'm here.


[Later, spam]

[She's just. Walking, when it hits her, descending the stairs to her room after another substitute kitchen shift. She wants to scream and bleed and set things on fire, and she barely understands why. She just - she did what she was supposed to do, she did, she didn't hide, and they - we love you, Mira, no one else will ever - they didn't -

She sits down in the middle of the stairwell, back to the wall, and draws her knees up tight so she can hide her face against them.]
exnihilo: (Default)
[Open, Video]

[She got caught by the women's council, near the end. They dragged her off when she claimed to have no family to be returned to, interred her in a tiny church with other troublesome, unmarried young ladies. Most of them had had a child out of wedlock. They did laundry together, work and penance, the heavy lye soap burning their hands hour by hour. Mira could have swaggered out bloody, but she didn't - something about the mumbled prayers and the delicate stained glass windows and the blunt, human directness of it, the brusque cruelty and judgement appealed to her. Their God was hypocritical and describable; the things he required of her were concrete and impersonal. It didn't matter that she was no one, in the cloister - all of them were no one, were discards, and they showed her how to do the work and took her unhesitatingly in. She enjoyed it, in her way, listened to the other women talk about their children, taught one how to break her boyfriend's wrist the next time he came home drunk. And she stayed until the barge caught her up again.

She's in the chapel now, dull and bare by comparison, not gaudy morbid stories or old ash marks on squat brick. She rolls a candle from one hand to the other. She has kept to herself, so far, has made no announcements or introductions, done nothing to draw undue attention since the nature of this place was explained to her. She was content with that state of affairs. But she is curious, now.]


How many of us are religious?


terrible horrible flirting, confidential to Two-Face )

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Mira Hidalgo

April 2015

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